Life
by IFiWEREaROBOT
Summary: An ordinary man's life can sometimes be incredibly hard to bear, and an assassin's life is just that much more painful. A 100 Snapshot Collection.


**Author's Note:** I've never been very good at writing stories, but I do like quick drabbles, so I decided to take suggestions from friends and family and create this collection of "snapshots" in the universe of Assassin's Creed. I plan to reach at least 100 or more sentences, but seeing as I am only at about 80, it would be appreciated if you could suggest a word that can help me reach this goal. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this "story".

**LIFE**

_blue_  
When Malik first meets Kadar, his brother is wrapped up carefully, like a gift; and when the boy opens his eyes, Malik is amazed that he can see the sky in them.

* * *

_placebo_  
Kadar scrapes his knee one day and Malik has neither salve to treat it, nor sweets to comfort him with; all he has is himself, and when Kadar's face lights up after Malik kisses his knee and wipes his tears away, he can almost believe it's enough.

* * *

_set_  
At first, Al Mualim only wants Malik, but the boy refuses to leave Kadar behind; when the brothers insist that they are a set, Al Mualim just takes both of them instead.

* * *

_haunt_  
When they first move into the assassin's stronghold, Kadar is convinced that it must be haunted; when Malik asks him why he would say such a foolish thing, Kadar whispers of the white phantoms he's seen stalking the halls, and the unmistakable smell of death in the very stone foundation itself.

* * *

_holiday_  
Altaïr has no god, but his mother was a Christian, and he still dimly remembers the day she told him it was Christmas; it was one of the few times she ever smiled at him.

* * *

_trash_  
Al Mualim's eyes are keen enough to see other men's trash for the treasure they really are; that's why, when he comes across a young orphan, discarded by family and society, he only sees a precious ore that has yet to be forged into a blade.

* * *

_detached_  
Not even all the blending techniques that their instructor has taught them can ever make Altaïr fit in properly, even amongst his fellow assassins; as Malik watches the new novice train by himself, intensely focused and detached from his peers, he wonders if maybe the boy wants it to be that way.

* * *

_title_  
Perhaps it's the fact that he has no true surname that makes Altaïr so interesting, or maybe it's because Malik knows that the books with no titles always have the best stories.

* * *

_share_  
It's a good thing that Altaïr isn't the type to mingle, because Malik doesn't like to share, and he's not above threatening a few innocents to protect his interests.

* * *

_pedobear_  
Malik isn't sure when this obsession with Altaïr first began, but what he does know is that he is a few years the young man's senior; and it unsettles him greatly.

* * *

_pie_  
Malik makes a new recipe that night, a dish called "shepherd's pie", and while Kadar is wolfing down his piece like it's the best thing he's ever eaten, Altaïr is still dissecting his own with a cautious eye.

* * *

_laziness_  
Altaïr worked hard to get where he is today, so that entitles him to some degree of laziness- or at least that's what he tells Malik when the older assassin tries to get him to sweep.

* * *

_attention_  
Malik's dark eyes dart back and forth rapidly, following the lines on the page with the same sort of dogged persistence that the guards chased assassins with; Altaïr, irritated that he's been ignored for a bundle of parchment and ink, plucks the book right out of Malik's hands, only feeling content when that angry stare is fixed on him instead.

* * *

_book_  
Altaïr wants to impress Malik, so he chooses the oldest, most difficult-looking book from his shelf and pretends to read it; he only ends up embarassed when Malik snorts in amusement and turns the book right-side up for him.

* * *

_ambidextrous_  
Altaïr is ambidextrous out of necessity, not by nature, because holding a sword isn't very easy when one of your fingers is a freshly cauterized stump.

* * *

_grain_  
The assassins may wear the same robes and follow one creed, but Altaïr is undeniably different somehow; his edges are coarse and jagged, as if the block they'd carved him from had been cut against the grain.

* * *

_exit_  
The crowd disperses with a discordant chorus of screams as an archer's corpse falls from the sky, and all eyes look upwards to find the source; Altaïr allows himself to be seen for that split second of delirium, just so he can make a dramatic exit.

* * *

_tea_  
Malik has always been more fond of tea than alcohol and it's a preference that amuses Altaïr to no end whenever they go into town to celebrate a successful mission; but what Altaïr will never admit is that he is secretly fond of the smell of Jasmine tea on Malik's breath as well.

* * *

_sip_  
Altaïr is determined to find out what is so good about tea that Malik will drink nothing else; Malik tries to warn him that it's an acquired taste, but he finally relents and lets Altaïr have a sip from his cup, tiredly repeating himself in exasperation when Altaïr spits the whole mouthful out in a nearby flower pot.

* * *

_flowers_  
Altair takes a deep breath and holds it as the guards scour the rooftops for him, their footsteps circling dangerously close to the roof garden he's hiding in; he exhales softly in relief when they leave and all is silent as he rests his cheek on the plush bed of flowers, idly wishing that he had more time to enjoy them.

* * *

_dancing_  
It is in complete jest that Malik suggests to Altaïr that he ought to learn belly dancing to improve his muscle control; needless to say, he didn't expect Altaïr to take his advice seriously and bring a scantily-dressed belly dancer into the training arena to practice.

* * *

_yield_  
Altaïr locks swords with Malik and glares at him hotly through the gap between the blades, his grey eyes flashing defiantly, and Malik curls his lip in annoyance and presses back twice as hard; both refuse to yield and, much to their chagrin, the match is declared a draw.

* * *

_fog_  
Between memories and reality is a misty no-man's land that, in his first few sessions in the Animus, Desmond had stood achingly still in; he had been afraid that if he moved, his mind would be lost in the machine forever, but now he takes off at a sprint with the desperate hope that the fog will consume him entirely.

* * *

_snow_  
Being in the Animus is a strange experience for Desmond, not only because of its interface, but because he's used to cold, misty days and Altaïr's memories are only of the blazing desert sun and arid air that scorches his throat; but if he tries hard enough, he can fool himself into thinking that the endless sand dunes fading into the horizon are softly sloping hills of snow instead.

* * *

_galactic_  
There are a lot of everyday things that people tend to take for granted, like air conditioning and television, and right now Desmond wishes he was back at home, sitting in his favorite armchair and watching Battlestar Galactica reruns; instead, he's crouching in the hot, humid shadows, waiting for his ancestor's newest target to pass by so that he can bury a knife in his neck.

* * *

_string_  
Desmond trusts Lucy, he really does, but it's hard to believe her when she tells him that he's a valuable asset, because most of the time he just feels like 'that guy' who got strung along for the ride.

* * *

_hereditary_  
Besides their appearances, it's the small things that Desmond notices he has in common with his ancestor, like the way Altaïr purposely goes out of his way to isolate himself with his impatience and attitude; Desmond has a hypothesis that loneliness may be hereditary.

* * *

_diva_  
They're both just prisoners in the end, so Lucy finds the time to make Desmond comfortable by telling him about her life before Abstergo; after she finishes a rather amusing anecdote about the time she was tricked into singing at a karaoke bar, Desmond laughs openly in disbelief for the first time since he came here and comments that he never took her for a diva.

* * *

_horse_  
Altaïr prefers running across rooftops over walking quietly in a crowd, and riding a horse over running; he loves the way the sleek mane gleams white in the sun like a blade and the powerful muscles pulse beneath his shins, steady and reliable.

* * *

_crimson_  
There is something decidedly beautiful about a man's death to Altaïr; whenever his dagger dances across the broad canvas of flesh, leaving fine crimson lines in it's wake, he feels like an artist.

* * *

_flag_  
Altaïr's eyes narrow in concentration as he clasps his hands together in a faux prayer and slowly makes his way through the crowd of suspicious soldiers, their hands on their swords and eyes on his hood; his arm darts out in a flash, practically unseen, as he abruptly uproots a flag from the middle of the courtyard and stows it away in his tunic with a satisfied smirk.

* * *

_bagel_  
Altaïr is so busy gloating the fact that he is a Master Assassin now that he tends to forget that he's human as well; which is why Malik is there to shove a thick slice off bread down Altaïr's throat when he nearly topples over during practice from not eating for a week.

* * *

_apple_  
Not only is it unorthodox, it's also incredibly unsanitary, but Altaïr still insists on cutting apples with his sword.

* * *

_fish_  
Malik thinks that Altaïr is as graceful as a bird in flight whenever he watches him skim across buildings; but when he has to drag the spluttering "Master Assassin" out of the sea for the umpteenth time, he can't help but think that even a dead fish could swim much better.

* * *

_family_  
Altaïr has always been like family to him; but when he leaves them for dead in Solomon's temple, and Malik is forced to watch Kadar slowly fade away in the crook of his one good arm, it feels like he has lost two brothers instead of one.

* * *

_child_  
When their father dies in battle for a war he does not believe in, and their mother dies of a broken heart for a man she doesn't love, Malik is left as the sole provider for the son they leave behind; he's spent so many years watching Kadar grow that he can't consider him an adult just yet, but the Templars only laugh and spit in his face when he begs for them to spare his brother's life and they mock him when he insists that the man beside him is only a child.

* * *

_goodbye_  
Malik was the type of man who calculated and planned so that he would never make mistakes and never have anything to regret; consequently, his one regret was losing Kadar and never saying goodbye.

* * *

_scare_  
Altaïr isn't afraid of many things- he faces death on a daily basis, after all, and jumps off of tall buildings for fun- but merely sitting at Malik's bedside in the infirmary, watching the healers cut away what is left of his friend's arm and listening to their indifferent explanations of how many ways the operation could go wrong, is the most frightening experience of his life.

* * *

_spiral_  
Sometimes, Malik feels as if he is spiraling into madness; there are unexplainable aches where his arm used to be, and he can still hear his brother snoring softly as he lays awake at night.

* * *

_feel_  
It doesn't frighten Altaïr when he can't feel the warm blood trickling down his numb, frigid fingers; it's when he looks down at the body and only feels the cold air filling the hollow in his chest, where a painful heaviness used to reside, that he fears he's forgotten how to feel human.

* * *

_cold_  
Outside, it is unbearably hot and humid, and his sweat-soaked tunic sticks to him like a second skin; inside, the cool shade of the bureau and Malik's dark, wary eyes make Altaïr feel unnaturally cold.

* * *

_test_  
Malik has incredible willpower, but everyday is a test of his strength when he must resist the urge to fling a throwing knife into Altaïr's throat.

* * *

_paper_  
When he's supposed to be resting for his next assassination, Altaïr often creeps away from the nest of pillows to watch Malik create his maps instead; Malik's hand always moves across the parchment skillfully, whether it's twisting the thin, metal legs of the compass, or clutching the quill loosely to draw long, sweeping strokes, and Altaïr is always mesmerized by the intricate worlds one man can create with black ink and yellowed paper.

* * *

_chains_  
After his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, he can see them clearly and they all look the same to him in their uniform of chains and filth, all equal in their despair; Altaïr's never considered himself a very sensitive man, but the sight of those shackled bodies still disturbs him.

* * *

_milk_  
Altaïr's cloak is white, so when he barrels past a woman carrying a pot on her head and causes the contents to empty themselves onto him, he's still more concerned with the red stains soaking his sleeve than the milk dribbling down the beak of his hood.

* * *

_karma_  
Malik still hasn't forgiven Altaïr for the loss of his arm, so when the demoted assassin tumbles down into his bureau one day- his arm slashed just above the elbow and almost to the bone- Malik can only smile bitterly and think it's karma.

* * *

_rose_  
Altaïr holds out a rose to him while he's working and when Malik absentmindedly reaches his hand out to take it, he accidentally pricks his finger; one close look at the wild flower is all it takes before he's angrily demanding to know why Altaïr didn't strip the stem first, and Altaïr quietly replies that he'll remove the rose's thorns when Malik removes his.

* * *

_attractive_  
Malik thinks that Altaïr's most attractive feature is the thin scar down the side of his lips; whenever he presses his lips against that pale strip of flesh, he feels satisfied knowing he put it there himself.

* * *

_poison_  
He knows he shouldn't be here when his target is leaving in less than an hour, but Altaïr can't quite seem to tear himself away from Malik's dark, smoldering eyes and burning lips as he pours his hate into him, like the sweetest poison he's ever tasted.

* * *

_battle_  
They can't get along, they rub each other in all the wrong ways, and even their sex is more of a battle than an outlet; so when Malik abuses the small spot below his ear with his teeth, Altaïr can't help but feel as if he's lost the war as well.

* * *

_road_  
The road to Jerusalem is a long and dangerous one that Altaïr has frequented many times before; however, this time, he travels it as a man with a purpose, instead of an assassin with a mission, and that has made all the difference.

* * *

_love_  
Malik is more cautious than Altaïr, even more so after the botched mission in Solomon's temple; that's why, when Altaïr apologizes to him with enough remorse to break his heart, Malik is not so quick to call this feeling "love".

* * *

_happy_  
Altaïr's moments of happiness are few and rare; there was the content warmth in his heart when he was accepted into Malik and Kadar's small family, and the glow of pride when Al Mualim promoted him to Master Assassin, but nothing can compare to the feeling he gets when Malik tells him that he is a changed man with nothing to be forgiven for.

* * *

_bottle_  
Altaïr used to be an open book to Malik, and he would casually flip through his pages at his own whim and fancy; now, the Master Assassin is truer to his name and carefully bottles up his emotions at the convenience of his duties, and Malik is surprised to find that he has to accustom himself to the man all over again.

* * *

_progress_  
They're still not completely comfortable around each other yet- they still fight and glare and have their awkward silences- but Malik doesn't look like he wants to kill him anymore, so Altaïr supposes they're making progress.

* * *

_drift_  
Altaïr used to know everything about Malik, how to annoy him, how to make him smile, how to lie to him; today he realizes that he can't even remember Malik's favorite flavor of tea, and he doesn't know how they drifted so far apart.

* * *

_wave_  
In the glass-still surface of their childhood tenderness, it only takes one moment of pure, unadulterated loathing to escalate the faintest of ripples into a terrifying wave that starts with them viciously ripping their fondest memories apart at the seams, and ends with them reverently mending the pieces back together to make something better instead.

* * *

_eye_  
Al Mualim's eye both terrifies and awes Altaïr; he knows that it is his master's blind spot, but when he looks into the glass white surface and can only see his own reflection staring back at him he feels terribly exposed, as if he were being looked through to his very core.

* * *

_infinite_  
Normal people wonder about what will happen to them when they die (if they will go to heaven or hell), but Altaïr knows the truth about life after death (that there is none), so all he's truly concerned with is when and how he'll die; and when it comes to assassins, the possibilities are infinite.

* * *

_cloud_  
Altaïr can still feel the stinging slap on his cheek and see the haunting, cloudy eyes of his master as he sleeps; but it's Malik he feels, and Malik he sees when he wakes.

* * *

_tattoo_  
It's hardly noticeable, but Altaïr has a small mark on the inside of his wrist, an intricate design that he had been branded with when he was first initiated as an assassin; Malik had one, too, but that was on his other arm, and now he presses lips and teeth to Altaïr's tattoo and tries to liberate him as well.

* * *

_music_  
A novice assassin asks Altaïr how he can possibly stand Malik's nagging and scolding all day long; Altaïr winks and cheekily replies that his lover's harsh voice is like music to his ears.

* * *

_angel_  
Malik isn't much to look at, he's short, and brown, and only has one arm; but when he's carefully tending to the Master Assassin's wounds with his lone yet nimble hand, he looks like an angel to Altaïr.

* * *

_silver_  
Altaïr's eyes are the most versatile shade of grey that Malik has ever seen; whenever he's focused on something, his eyes become the cold steel of his blades, but when he looks at Malik with that quiet, thoughtful expression on his face, they almost seem to melt into pools of molten silver.

* * *

_mocha_  
Altaïr is often compelled to touch Malik's scars; his coarse fingertips trace paths along the pale, web-like patterns in his mocha skin, where they are both painfully aware a limb ought to be, and Malik just sighs tiredly every time and lets him.

* * *

_control_  
Their relationship is built around control and while Altaïr may have the higher ranking, Malik has lost the most; and in the end, it's his missing arm that gives him the upper hand.

* * *

_bones_  
Altaïr has taken too much already, and now it's Malik's turn; he steals his heart, consumes his thoughts, and takes his breath away, until Altaïr is stripped down to the bone and left waiting, at Malik's mercy, for the things he's lost to return.

* * *

_scrumptious_  
Rations are hardly a romantic meal, but Malik still finds it incredibly endearing when Altaïr steals the tasteless bread from his mouth with a deep kiss and licks his smirking lips mischievously, as if it were the most scrumptious thing he'd ever eaten.

* * *

_palace_  
The small house they purchased together isn't exactly a palace; there's drafts in the night, and insects under foot in the day ,and the walls creak rather awfully at any hour, but being able to wake up to the smell of Malik's cooking in the morning makes Altaïr feel like a king.

* * *

_potato_  
It's long and smooth, the skin pale brown in all its soft dryness; Altaïr puts his lips to the potato and pulls away with a teasing smirk, murmuring, "delicious," as Malik buries his face in his maps to hide his violent blush.

* * *

_fool_  
Altaïr can be incredibly dense for an assassin, but even if he makes a fool out of himself, at least he's still Malik's fool.  
_

* * *

paranoia_  
For some reason, whenever Malik dresses, he can feel eyes on his back; he pretends not to see the red sash dangling in the window and dismisses the feeling as a mild case of paranoia.

* * *

_flash_  
All it takes is the slightest flash of skin to provoke him, and when an uncoordinated yawn leads to Altaïr attacking the thin strip of brown flesh between the hem of his shirt and pants, Malik has to smack him upside the head to get any sleep at all that night.

* * *

_whore_  
Altaïr means the flying one in their mother tongue; but the only time he ever really thinks about it is when he's spread eagle on the bed, with Malik taking him to heights higher than he's ever flown before.

* * *

_strike_  
It takes years of practice for an assassin to hone his senses sharp enough to detect the right place and time to strike; Altaïr is a natural, of course, and he knows just where to slide his palms down Malik's spine and when to moan, low and dark, into his ear to get a rise out of him.

* * *

_leather_  
Malik buries his teeth deep in the dark skin of Altaïr's shoulder, and digs his nails deeper into the leather brace around his forearm; but he can barely tell the difference between the two.

* * *

_cotton_  
The first thing Malik does upon waking is press his face into the cotton sheets and inhale deeply, losing himself in the lingering scents of sweat and hay and sex in a semi-conscious daze; he exhales shakily not a moment later, half a sigh and half a sob, and the pleasant morning ends when he remembers that Altaïr has been gone for more than a week now.

* * *

_welcome_  
The thought of seeing Malik's face again is what drives Altaïr to drag himself home after all this time, battered and torn, but in one piece nonetheless; yet it's not the sting of Malik's palm across his cheek that finally breaks him, it's the harsh whisper that tells him he isn't welcome here anymore.  
_

* * *

lady_  
If Altaïr can not have Malik, he decides that he will at least never settle for a meek woman, and Maria is definitely no lady.

* * *

_rambunctious_  
He's a calm man now, but Altaïr reassures his son that he was just as rambunctious as him when he was his age; of course, that doesn't stop him from confiscating the little brat's weapons and demoting him back to novice.


End file.
